How To Kill Your Husband: Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Happy Halloween! Here's Chapter 2... with some creepy Halloween art by Rachel George! More murder and mayhem to come...

step two: wait, what???

I stand over the empty wheelbarrow for what feels like forever. Jack was dead—stone cold dead. I made double-sure. Corpses don’t just get up and walk away.

I reach into the wheelbarrow, feeling around to make sure. Nope. No invisible body. Jack is gone, which means someone must have moved him. But who? Why? I crouch to check the trash bags. Still full. That means I’m not crazy. Not the hallucinating kind of crazy, anyway.

Looking around the garage, nothing stands out. I parked in the driveway when I came home from the vet, so the garage door hasn’t opened since then. I’ve kept an anxious vigil on the living room couch all evening, huddled under a mountain of blankets despite the sticky summer heat, so I’m sure no one came through the house.

The chime of the doorbell sends a jolt through my body. I shoot upright, turning toward the door. Shit. The cops? Or maybe it’s the person who stole my husband’s corpse, returning to confront me.

I think about running for it, but my car keys are in the house. It wouldn’t take long for the police to hunt me down on foot. I should probably hand myself in and claim self-defense. Maybe Mrs. Cooper next door will cat-sit Yeti until I make bail. If Florida even offers bail for murderers…

The doorbell rings several times in a row. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch my aching forehead, fighting a rising wave of panic. I can’t ignore reality any longer. I have to answer it.

I leave the garage and head back inside, creeping up to the front door. My trembling fingers fumble with the locks, but I summon my courage and turn the handle.

Jack is standing on the porch in the pelting rain. His bloodstained clothes are soaked through, clinging to his ghost-white skin.

While I stare in open-mouthed shock, Jack stumbles inside. I catch him just in time to keep him from crumpling to the floor. He’s mostly dead weight, threatening to pull me down onto the welcome mat like a drowned man going under.

“Gabby…?” He stares at me with wide, glassy blue eyes, shivering in my embrace.

My mind screams for me to run. Jack’s dead. Dead. This must be someone, or something, else.

I try to tear away from whatever this is, but his hold on me is too strong. His cold fingers are like a steel manacle around my wrist. He staggers to the couch, dragging me along with him, and collapses into my nest of blankets.

“Don’t know,” he pants through chattering teeth, wrapping his arms around his elbows. “Don’t know…why I was out there…why…?”

Wait. Jack doesn’t remember?

Shit. He doesn’t remember!

Maybe Jack survived, escaped the garage, and wandered out into the storm with amnesia. I could melt into a puddle of relief on the wet, muddy carpet. He’s alive! I’m not a murderer! It doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t deny the fact that Jack is here—warm, moving, breathing.

Tears of relief sting my eyes. “Come on, sugar.” The term slips out before I can clip my teeth over it. I tug Jack’s arm. “Let’s clean you up.”

Jack obeys, allowing me to pull him off the couch and toward the bedroom like an exhausted child. I take off his clothes, then wrap him in one of our remaining towels while I run a hot bath. He groans as he sinks into the tub, exhaling a long sigh. “Sorry, Gabby.”

I stare at him, shaken by the sight of my living husband lying naked in our tub when I’d been about to bury him five minutes ago. Love and regret tug at my heartstrings. The past ten years have had plenty of good times as well as bad, and the bad only happens when he’s drunk. It’s an illness, not the real him.

The real Jack worked overtime to take me on an airboat tour of the Everglades for my thirtieth birthday. He brings me potted flowers instead of store-bought, in cute little animal pots he finds at the secondhand store near his work. When I’m sad, he makes lasagna for dinner, no questions asked.

“You got nothing to apologize for, sugar.”

I grab Jack’s soap and loofah from the shower caddy, sitting him upright so I can scrub his back. I pause around his neck. There’s a stab wound where his throat joins his shoulder, but it’s already scabbed over. The raised red flesh seems to be healing. Maybe he has some kind of superhuman gene that makes his injuries heal faster? I can’t think of another explanation that doesn’t involve ghosts or zombies.

No. Don’t go there. This isn’t a horror movie.

Carefully, I wash the wound. Jack doesn’t react with any visible pain. He closes his eyes, melting under my touch. I bury my conflicting emotions and let autopilot take over, cleaning him up, wrapping him in a towel, and drying him off before tucking him in bed.

While Jack cocoons in the covers, I rummage in the closet for my electric blanket. I plug it in and tuck it under Jack’s shoulders so he has something warmer than the bed to lie on. His eyes remain closed, but a soft, happy smile flutters about his lips. “Thanks, babe. Love you.”

The words tumble out on autopilot. “Love you too.”

In under a minute, Jack conks out, drooling on his pillow and snoring uproariously. I stand next to the bed, studying him for a long time. Whatever the hell happened, Jack doesn’t seem to remember it. If he confronts me, I’ll tell him he went on a bender and imagined the whole thing. The universe has given me, given us, a second chance.

I start to climb into bed beside him, just like every other night, but something stops me—a chill crawling down my spine. The hairs on my arms prickle, like my body is warning me. I watch him a while longer, making extra sure he’s asleep, then tip-toe back into the living room.

With a groan, I flop onto the couch and grab the remote. I turn on the Home & Garden network, letting the noise drown out my whirling thoughts, and huddle under the pile of blankets I’d been using before. They smell like wet rain. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight, and I don’t think I want to.

I murdered my husband, but the universe doesn’t seem to care. What if Jack remembers what I did tomorrow? What if he already knows, and he’s just faking his amnesia, waiting and plotting revenge? If I close my eyes, I might not open them again.

Come on. He’s your husband—he won’t kill you.

But you killed him, didn’t you? Before today, you never would have dreamed of murdering him.

He kicked Yeti. He deserved it.

But he loves you.

I pull the blanket over my head, shutting my eyes tight. Tears squeeze through the closed lids, leaving hot trails on my cheeks. I’ll just take things one step at a time, until Jack wakes up and I have a better sense of what, if anything, he’ll do.

~*~

The sweet, savory smell of bacon and grits pulls me from slumber. My eyes flutter open and a soft smile tugs at my lips. Jack’s cooking my favorite breakfast. What a sweetheart. As he likes to say: happy wife, happy life.

Then it hits me like a bucket of ice water. My eyes snap open and my heart lurches into my throat, throbbing there like it’s trying to choke me. I stabbed Jack yesterday. He died. He should be dead.

I want to pull the blankets back over my head and hide. In my warm cocoon of darkness, I can keep pretending yesterday was a horrible dream. But I’ve always faced things, like my marital problems, head-on.

Wrapping the fluffiest couch blanket around my shoulders, I tiptoe across the living room and over to the kitchen; the same damn kitchen where I scrubbed bloodstains out of the grout.

Jack stands by the stove with his back to me, whistling as he tests a corner piece of bacon for crispness. He likes it floppy, I like it crisp—but he’s practically burnt it, just how I like it.

While I stand in the doorway with no clue what to do, he turns and smiles at me. “Mornin’, sleeping beauty. You didn’t have to sleep on the couch.” He turns and winks at me, his blue eyes sparkling. “Should I be hurt?”

I bite my cheek. What on God’s green earth do I say? After a painful pause, I settle on, “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

“Sure did.” Jack plates the bacon strips and dumps some grits beside them from a pot on the stove. A slice of toast and an egg over easy complete the meal. “Thanks for taking care of me last night, baby. I must have been out of my gourd, wandering around in the rain like that. I should probably see a doctor, but I feel fine now.” He offers me the plate.

“Uh, you’re welcome?”

I hesitate, studying Jack’s hands. They’re the same hands that promised to love, hold, and cherish me forever. No sign of death or decay. If he’s a zombie or something, he’s a remarkably fresh one. I shake that thought away. Zombies aren’t real. Either I’m having delusions, or he survived with amnesia, like I keep telling myself.

“Gabs?” Jack waves his hand in front of my face, wearing a goofy grin. “You gonna take that plate?”

I purse my lips into a smile and take the plate. “Smells amazing.”

“Let’s eat on the couch. I’ll meet you there.”

“Sure, hon.” I turn around, plate in hand.

Jack slaps my behind.

I yelp, scurrying into the living room while Jack’s rich, baritone laughter rings after me. I set my plate on the side table and sit on the couch, sagging against the cushions. Jack's flirting has never bothered me before, but my body remembers exactly what he did to Yeti. And what I did to him.

Act normal. That’s what I have to do. Pretend everything is normal and pray Jack doesn’t remember.

A shadow looms over me from behind. I catch the familiar scent of Jack’s cologne as he places a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You haven’t touched your breakfast.”

I force a laugh. “I only just sat down.”

Jack’s hand presses down, his grip digging into my shoulder. I don’t dare push it off or duck away. “I made it for you. Don’t make me beg now.”

Cautiously, I reach for the plate. Despite the enticing smell of bacon fat in my nose, the first bite tastes like sandpaper with Jack watching my every move. I choke it down past the lump of fear in my throat. “Mm. You know just how I like it.”

He squeezes my shoulder, then releases me, joining me on the other side of the couch. I notice he hasn’t brought his plate to the couch. “I’ve been thinking, Gabby. I don’t spoil you enough. With all you do for me, I should be treating you like a queen.”

I grind my teeth into a smile. “You do, Jack. With breakfast—”

“I don’t mean breakfast.” He leans closer, placing his hand on my knee. It burns through the fabric of my leggings, his palm much too hot. “I know I’ve had problems in the past—when I was let go from Mueller’s and all. I felt like I had to drink to get through the embarrassment, you know? A man should provide for his wife. But yesterday has made me grateful for what I have. I don’t want to lose you.”

This man looks like Jack, smells like Jack, and speaks like Jack, but my body is shouting run, run, run, like an ancient drumbeat of warning. It’s all I can do to keep my stupid, fake smile on my face.

“I’m not going anywhere. Besides, you have a great job now. Wells Fargo has better benefits than a privately owned bank. You did right by me.”

And Jack has done right by me, hasn’t he? Even though I was the one to write and submit his application. Even though I woke him up every morning for work that first week, hungover or not. Once he was in the habit, he’d even stopped drinking to make a good impression at his new job.

Until yesterday.

Jack’s thumb circles the edge of my knee. It’s a gentle motion, but my thigh jumps at the contact. “I did it for you. That’s why I’ve been thinking, you don’t need to spread yourself so thin anymore. You should give your notice at the flower shop. Grow flowers here, at home. I’ll give you a big allowance for gardening. I want you to enjoy your hobbies, because you deserve it.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “Leave Petal Paradise? I could never. Maisie needs me.” Maisie, the late fifties blonde who wears too much perfume but has a heart as big as heaven and hair to match, has always been good to me. She gave me a job when no one else would, right before Jack’s unemployment ran out.

Jack’s brow furrows. “Maisie sits you behind the checkout counter all day while she takes care of the flowers.”

“She lets me help in the greenhouse when it’s slow.”

Jack stops stroking my knee, pressing down on my leg with his large palm. “You don’t need her. Grow your own plants. Enter our home in one of those neighborhood garden walks. Breed your own rose subspecies, or whatever you want.”

I bite the corner of my lip. It sounds tempting, like all the fairytales Jack spins for me. I would love to grow my own plants and do whatever I want, without clocking in and out of a part-time job involving needy brides and grieving widows.

But I also love it at Petal’s. I love Maisie, my regulars, and helping people find the perfect bouquets. I love the lemon saplings Maisie and I grew together out back, and Maisie’s homemade lemonade. I love going to the coffee shop next door at lunch and chatting with the baristas. I love getting out of the house four days a week. I don’t want to—I can’t give it up.

All those reasons won’t be good enough for Jack, though. So I try a different tactic. “What about the extra money?”

“We don’t need it,” Jack says. “I make enough to take care of us now.”

My smile falls away. The term ‘allowance’ makes me feel like a child getting twenty bucks for dinner and a movie. Our finances are combined. I have access to the checking account now, but who knows what the future will bring? Drunk Jack does all sorts of shitty, terrible things sober Jack would never do. If he spends all our money on his next bender, I’ll be left with no savings and no income.

“I’m not sure…”

He looks at me with those wide, cornflower blue eyes, poking out his lower lip. “Come on, Gabs. Don’t you believe in me?”

No. I don’t.

I lick my lips, summoning my courage. Regardless of my decision, I should tell Jack what he wants to hear. “Yeti’s at the vet. Let’s see what the bill is, and then I’ll talk to Maisie.”

A shadow crosses Jack’s face. It’s only a brief twitch of his wide and winning smile, the subtlest tightening of the laugh lines around his eyes, but I see it all the same. “Oh no. Is he sick? Sorry, I don’t remember much of yesterday.”

My blood runs cold. I’ve been married to Jack for over ten years, so I know when he’s lying. I realize in the depths of my marrow that he does remember what happened yesterday. I see it in those bewitching blue eyes of his. There’s no way I can trust him. This has to be some kind of trap.

“He’ll be okay. I should get a call later today.”

Jack leans down, resting his forehead against mine. His warm breath caresses my cheek, smelling like orange juice. It makes my skin crawl. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me know what the vet says. I’ll come with you to pick Yeti up later.”

“Sure. Thanks, babe.”

Jack cups the back of my neck, pulling me in for a light kiss on the lips. I don’t resist. I feel nothing as his mouth brushes mine, none of the warmth or safety his kisses used to give me. “Finish your breakfast,” he whispers, rubbing the tip of his nose against mine. To my relief, he shifts back to his side of the couch and grabs the remote, switching the TV on.

While Jack flips to the golf channel, I cut my bacon into tiny shreds, hoping it will look like I’ve eaten some. I trust this meal about as much as I trust him… although the passing thought does give me an idea. 

Something’s different about Jack. Something dangerous, possibly supernatural. I’ve treated his addiction as an illness before, something I needed to help him fight—but plenty of alcoholics get help. They don’t hurt helpless cats. They don’t try and guilt their spouses into quitting their jobs. They definitely don’t come back from the dead and lie about it.

I don’t know what’s going on with Jack, but I do know he’s dangerous. He’s a liar, a manipulator, and an abuser, and he should be six feet under. Next time, I need to make sure he stays that way.